A Segregation Story From Dad

My dad and I were sitting around the other day, discussing racial relations in American history when he recounted one of the more memorable experiences from his high school years. It was 1949 and Dad and his brother Max were attending Searcy High School in Searcy, Arkansas. The public schools were all segregated. Brown V. Board of Education was six years away. The integration of Little Rock High School and Ike sending in federal troops (the 82nd Airborne?) was eight years away. It was pretty much apartheid across most of the American South and perfectly legal and acceptable and Christian in the former Confederacy.

Dad and Max were on the basketball team and they practiced after school. Once their practice concluded, the Black players from the Black high school got to use the only gym in town to practice. The Black school had no gym. One evening, Dad and Max stuck around for some reason to watch the Black players.

“They were dunking,” he told me. “And we barely had a player who could touch the rim.”

It was a sight that has stayed with him his entire life.

That was within his lifetime. The March on Selma in 1965 is within my lifetime. I know we’ve made racial progress in America, but there is still so far to go, and I wonder if I’ll live to see a day when I hear from people of color that real, substantive, change has come.